


The Art of Patient Topping

by SolarPoweredFlashlight



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Consensual Kink, F/F, Kink Negotiation, Medical Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 11:56:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16832149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolarPoweredFlashlight/pseuds/SolarPoweredFlashlight
Summary: It takes the nurturing of mutual trust to broach the subject of playing with the doctor/patient role during sex; when Lena and Angela finally decide to give it a try, it goes the absolute best way it possibly could thanks to clear communication and a long established kinky dynamic.





	The Art of Patient Topping

**Part One**

The notion

first crosses Lena’s mind in the aftermath of a slow, sweaty lovemaking session on a sticky summer evening.

The cicadas are singing even though the sun has been down for at least an hour, which is testament to how disgustingly, appallingly hot it is in this particular part of the world.

Angela is the only thing keeping her spirits up this week, assigned to this miserable place without any action to be had.

Standby. She hates being on standby.

But there is entertainment to be had, Lena thinks, entertainment and comfort all in one, and she’s filled with a sort of pride in herself for working up the courage to reach out to Angela and ask for this.

Well. Not for this, not exactly.

It was the fear of being alone in unfamiliar territory, the anxiety, the –

Blink. All it takes is one blink and the disembodied feeling can ambush her, the helplessness, the loss of self, the –

No, she knew she couldn’t handle being alone in this place. She barely keeps it together at home. Sleeping by herself in a strange location means either

1\. the nightmares and the panic attacks, waking up convinced somebody has taken the chronal accelerator and she’s a split second from being _gone_ again, or else

2\. not sleeping at all, which is only marginally better.

So here’s the thing. All she asked Lena to do was to share the room with her.

Comfort comes in many forms. They’ve known each other for years, at this point. Angela was one of the brilliant minds they had working on trying to find the solution to her – to the – well.

Angela told her once, maybe a year into working together as part of Overwatch, that she’d never quite forgiven herself for failing to find a solution. She still hadn’t given up, by the time Winston had created the first generation of the accelerator.

But it wasn’t her fault she couldn’t find a medical solution for a – a _temporal_ problem. Like trying to fix a software glitch by messing with the hardware, says Winston.

And anyways, the woman’s dug bullets out of Lena’s flesh enough times. It’s funny she never pieced together before then that Angela felt guilty. Imagine the head of medical research personally seeing to your scrapes and bruises.

Oblivious. Lena feels so oblivious, sometimes.

So here she is, sticky with sweat, Angela’s hand on her hip, the sheets kicked down somewhere around their ankles.

Angela catches her looking. She’s very pretty, very human, that dance between soft edges and hard edges. Lena likes her accent. Likes how she’s got a better vocabulary than half the native English speakers Lena knows, herself included.

“Everything okay?” Angela asks, the thumb on Lena’s hip moving, lazy in the heat and in the afterglow.

Caretaker. Always.

Lena smiles.

“More than okay,” she says, just a bit too worn out for her usual level of perky but no less sincere for it.

This is nice. It’s very nice.

A little surreal though. She wonders…

“How long has that been waiting to happen, then?”

Lena’s smiling as she asks it, curious, vulnerable, a touch sleepy. This isn’t the first time this trip that they’ve fucked, but it’s the first time she’s really let herself wonder just how oblivious she’s been.

“What do you mean?” Angela asks, not _guarded_ , exactly, but maybe uncertain, maybe tentative. Maybe legitimately confused by Lena’s phrasing? Hard to say.

Lena’s emotions have never been hard to read. She’s as transparent as a cup of tea made with cold water, someone once told her.

Angela, on the other hand… well, she’s not deliberately secretive, but she’s a little older, a little more schooled. She’s got the facial expressions of a surgeon who sometimes has to deliver hard news, the body language of someone used to taking responsibility for difficult decisions and making those decisions with such inscrutable self-confidence that people feel comfortable following her instructions without question.

Lena has a load of respect for her, and is genuinely fond of her, but that doesn’t mean she’s much good at reading her.

So she elaborates, gets more specific. Writhes a little closer (a little farther away from the accelerator sitting on the bedside table, surrounded by its limp, empty harness, and you bet your boots she feels those seven centimeters) so that she can touch Angela’s nose with the tip of her own.

“I’m just. Sort of curious,” Lena says, trying not to change the slow, easy pace of this humid but altogether pleasant evening. “Flattered, really,” she adds, smiling at the presence of the hand that hasn’t left her hip. “That you’d be interested in me.” Angela is still unreadable, although she _is_ smiling back. She decides to allow herself a little vulnerability, and goes on to say, “I’ve thought you quite attractive for years, really. Never dreamed it would be reciprocated.”

There it is. The light in Angela’s eyes. The crinkle at their corners, the downward flick, the bounce back up again to steady contact.

“Of course I was interested. You’re very attractive, you know.” Lena likes the sound of those words from Angela’s mouth, although she struggles to quite accept them as a hard truth. But she does like them.

She rolls over, takes hold of the hand that loses its place on her right hip, settles it instead on her left.

“It’s hot and horrible but you should come over here and spoon me and tell me more,” she says, not afraid to be needy. Not like this, not with Angela. She has too much faith in Angela’s inherent altruism. She knows after years of friendship that _communicating your needs is important_ , not just when it comes to telling the good doctor where it hurts, but also when it comes to interacting with Angela as a rule.

And here she is, in spite of a heat like a heavy blanket, pressing herself up against Lena’s body, front to back.

“What more is there to tell?” Angela asks, and Lena can hear the smile. A kiss behind her ear and the clear line of sight between her and the accelerator go hand in hand to relax her further into the embrace.

“Do you remember the very first time you looked at me and thought, ‘I could see myself shagging her’?”

Angela laughs, and the way she moves against Lena, repositioning slightly, makes her think of bare legs from too-short shorts sticking to the leather seats of a car on a summer day. This climate is so awful.

“The first time I ever thought about you that way… as I said, you _are_ very attractive. It would have been quite early on.” Another reassuring kiss behind her ear. Lena likes the way Angela kisses her, absently, affectionately, like it’s as natural as breathing.

“Mhm?” Lena asks, encouraging her to continue even as she starts to drift off to sleep, feeling comfortable, feeling concrete, feeling safe. Nothing like a little bedtime story.

“I think the very first time was… you remember earlier, when…” her voice is soft, contemplative. “When you were leaned over the edge of the table?”

Lena smiles. Oh, she _remembers_. In fact, if she remembers correctly, it wasn’t that she was leaned over the edge of the table so much as it was that Angela breathily _instructed_ her to bend over it.

“Mmm,” she hums approvingly in reply, “what about it?”

“Well. There was a time when… perhaps I shouldn’t tell you this. It might make you uncomfortable.”

“Are you worried about objectifying me?” Lena teases, grinning sleepily, gazing at the comforting glow of the accelerator. “I did ask, you know.”

“Well,” Angela says, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, accent getting a touch thicker unintentionally with the theatrics, “once during one of the routine physicals, I had the sudden vision of that pose.”

Lena’s grin grows further.

“Thinkin’ about bending me over the examination table? Such a naughty doctor.”

Angela laughs but it seems a little forced.

“I pushed it aside instantly. It would have been extremely unprofessional to do anything else.”

“Well,” Lena says, ready to change the subject, ready to sleep, “I’m glad over the years our relationship has gotten past professional. I certainly don’t have any complaints about your desire to bend me over tables.”

Angela’s chuckle sounds more real and relaxed this time around.

“The pleasure is all mine,” she murmurs.

They drift off to sleep, but the seed of an idea has been planted in Lena’s mind.

**Part Two**

The idea, having gestated, makes its appearance

many months later when the new and exciting and perhaps a bit bewildering has become normal and comfortable and perhaps even just a bit domestic.

When not away on missions, Lena now lives with Angela full time. She’s the best roommate she’s ever had, considering how well she deals with Lena’s panic attacks when the fear of losing herself, losing her hold on this timeframe, this reality, the fear of being lost again – lost _forever_ \- in that eternity of _alone_ -

Well.

Suffice to say, when Lena’s hand suddenly starts to shake midway through spreading butter on bread for a sandwich, when the emptiness of the kitchen and oppressive quiet of the house conspire with the demons in her brain to convince her she’s splitting from the timeline again, she’s falling and nothing can catch her – she cries out, and Angela comes running.

She always comes running.

And she sits with Lena curled up on the tile of the kitchen, huddled against the cabinets, holding her close and reassuring her that she is still tangible, she is still anchored, she is still safely strapped to the chronal accelerator.

To be perfectly honest, that need to not be alone was the driving force to accept Angela’s invitation to come live with her. Since moving in, the anxiety has been so much more manageable. Angela anchors her mind to this plane much the same way the accelerator anchors her body.

But it’s more than that. She’s a dear friend. She’s a gentle (and wonderfully bossy) lover. Turns out they have a lot of shared interests in that realm. Who’d have guessed?

(Probably a lot of people. Angela is always so in control, always so confident, always so ready to give calm instructions. Of course she’s kinky as hell, of course she’s a top.)

Lena is in the living room, fixated on battling digital monsters on her current handheld gaming device obsession when she hears the sound of the front door opening.

“Welcome home, love!” she shouts, without turning to look. She’s embroiled in a boss battle – nothing major, mind, just trying to beat it for some high value crafting materials. She’s beat it a handful of times before, but it’s still demanding all of her concentration to dodge its attacks at the right moment, and to know when to strike.

“Hey Lena,” Angela says from the front hall, politely confirming her presence, confirming she’s heard the offered greeting.

“Long day at the hospital?” Lena asks in reply, mashing buttons.

“Very long,” Angela confirms, from the nearness of her voice just entering the living room.

Lena hears her approach, hears the smooth sound of fabric on fabric, hears the sofa complain ever so slightly. Fingers touch at the base of her neck, at the short hairs there, still bristly from a recent trim.

Lena loves to be touched.

She would close her eyes and enjoy the feeling if it wouldn’t result in her videogame death. She settles instead for a soft groan of approval, to ensure Angela knows the touch is appreciated even if she’s distracted.

“When you’re done with that,” Angela says, with a soft, authoritative turn to her words that has Lena suddenly paying very close attention, “do you think you’d be in the mood to play a different game?”

“Hell,” Lena says, eyes riveted to the screen, “that sounds lovely.” She taps a few more swings of her sword half-heartedly, and suddenly she isn’t very invested in the outcome of this battle anymore. “In fact,” she says, making the decision and pausing the game, “I’d say I’m done right about now.”

She tilts her head backwards to beam up at Angela, upside down. Angela laughs at her, leans in to kiss her forehead, and then comes around to join her on the sofa.

Angela settles into the spot beside her.

Lena looks at her expectantly, enjoying the way her skin tingles with the leading edge of anticipation even now.

Angela smiles back at her.

The smile itself is foreplay.

She’s so patient, Lena’s lovely roommate, Lena’s gentle mistress, Lena’s dear friend Angela.

She wants to think _partner_ , but not yet. Not just yet.

There are other confusing things in that mix anyways. Other confusing _people_ in that mix.

But this – the look in Angela’s face, the way she makes Lena wait, the way obedience creeps into her limbs happily and hungrily and keeps her still – this is good. This is simple.

“Such a sweet girl,” Angela breathes, at last. The approval sings its way up Lena’s inner thighs and upper arms in the form of goosebumps and desire. Lena smiles.

This is a different smile from the one most people see. More reserved. Soft. Shy.

Submissive, even.

Angela’s body language answers with her particular brand of quiet, unmistakable authority.

“Come put your head in my lap,” she instructs, “and lie on your back.”

Gingerly setting her game console down on the floor next to the sofa, Lena pivots in her seat and wiggles into position, setting the back of her head against Angela’s thighs, tossing her legs over the far arm of the sofa. The effect of the _look_ that Angela gives her is magnified by seeing it from this angle, an instinctive multiplication of that feeling of vulnerability just by gazing up at her from below.

It’s so easy to let go with Angela, Lena thinks, as a hand comes down and strokes her throat with a touch like white wine. Her eyes close, natural as breathing.

“Look at me,” Angela commands, sharp and dry, delicate but intoxicating. Lena’s eyes snap back open instantly and she looks up, forces herself to hold the woman’s intense gaze. “Better,” Angela says, and her hand migrates to position possessively along Lena’s jawline.

Lena obediently watches the impassive, analytical dance of Angela’s eyes as the fingers of Angela’s other hand card through her hair. Even that small act builds anticipation. Is this about to be a soft, affectionate petting, or something more -

Angela grabs hair, grabs it _hard_ , pulls back.

Pain in Lena’s scalp jumpstarts a wildfire between her thighs.

She whimpers, allows her head to be yanked back, her throat to be exposed. Her eyes flicker shut again briefly before she remembers her orders and forces herself to look up at Angela again.

There’s the slightest touch of a smug smile at one corner of her mouth.

Lena’s heart is hammering.

She has a feeling this won’t be over quickly.

Angela, she has learned, is a big fan of the slow build.

Helpless. Wonderfully helpless.

Some days all it takes is a few commanding looks, sharp words, and she’s rendered a useless pile of clay to be shaped by her lover.

(Some days? Who is she kidding. Most days.)

Angela holding her by the head, one hand fisted in her hair and one resting, barely-there, against her pulse point, is as effective as a full-body restraint. She settles peacefully into the surrender and her mind sinks into her body, thoughts receding, replaced with sensation.

“Very good,” Angela whispers, gliding the pad of her thumb across Lena’s lower lip. Lena exhales hard, waiting impatiently for her patient master to give the next command, to take the next step in escalating things.

Angela looks down at her, smug, contemplative, totally in control.

Lena can only breathe, rooted by her touch.

“Be a good girl for me now,” Angela says, “and put your left hand up your shirt, under your bra.”

Lena swallows and does as she’s told.

“Good. Now I want you to close your eyes.” Finally! Fuck. Lena’s all too happy to follow that particular set of instructions. It was difficult maintaining eye contact, although of course half the fun of being given orders is having to force yourself to do something difficult.

Granted permission to retreat back into the easy safety of darkness, Lena settles more comfortably into her body, letting go another increment of control inside of her mind.

She relishes in the new sensation of Angela switching from painful grip to gentle stroking through her hair, smiles again.

“Now the right hand,” murmurs Angela, “into your pants, but not the underwear.”

With a flurry of restrained eagerness, Lena obeys, working one hand below the loose cargo shorts she’s been bumming around the house in, resting it just _on top_ without doing more than that.

“Now,” Angela says, “You’re going to very, very gently start to tease your nipple with your left hand. And as you do that, you’re going to be a good girl, and think back to the last time you masturbated while you were alone.”

Lena exhales another excited breath and begins to manipulate the fingers caught between her bra and her breast. Between thumb and forefinger, she takes hold of sensitive flesh. She would love - _love_ \- to be allowed to be doing similar things to her lower half with the other hand, but she hasn’t been given the green light on that, so she doesn’t dare.

This, after all, is nice Angela.

She likes nice Angela.

Ruthless Angela is very, very easy to summon if she breaks rules or gets ahead of herself.

So, she follows orders, and with cruel deliberation she teases herself with slow, soft touches to her own nipple, feeling her own wetness through the fabric of her underwear with her inactive hand.

And she thinks back to the last time she touched herself alone, yesterday evening before Angela was home.

The hands on her face keep her captive, keep her firmly in the mindset of compliance. It’s torture not to touch herself with her hand _right there_ , but she does take some pleasure in proving how much self-control she can exert when it’s asked of her.

“Good girl,” Angela says, her fingers forming a loose collar about Lena’s throat, promising just the barest touch of pressure. Lena’s chest rises and falls with a little more intensity at the feeling. “Now tell me. Describe what you were thinking about the last time you touched yourself.”

Oh. Oh dear.

Lena feels her face turning red, but she doesn’t stop the torturously nice motion of her fingertips below her bra.

“I. Uh,” she mumbles breathily. It’s not going to make Angela uncomfortable, is it?

“Are you going to behave yourself and do as you’re told?”

“Yes ma’am,” Lena answers immediately, spurred to a speedy response even without the pulse of renewed pressure around her throat. She’s not afraid of Angela’s hand being there, not afraid of the building tightness. They’ve played with that before plenty of times in the past, enough that she trusts Angela completely to know what she’s doing with it. It isn’t a mental fear so much as a physical one, purely reactive, a rush of endorphins and dopamine without any of the downsides of real danger.

“You’d better start talking then, if you ever want permission to come.”

Lena whimpers, high and needy, and feels herself float deeper into that happy place where everything is good and physical and grounded and nothing matters but following orders.

She licks her lips, thinks back, and forces herself to begin.

“I was thinking about you,” she confesses, half her mind on last night’s fantasy, half her mind on the steady but mild building of pleasure from obediently rubbing her own nipple.

“Go on,” Angela says, thumb and forefinger nestled below Lena’s jaw, pinky stroking lightly at the top of her collarbone. “And perhaps I’ll let you use your right hand.”

Lena’s breathing gets a little harder.

“I was thinking about… I was imagining that we were… in a medical examination room.” She swallows. She’s not sure how Angela’s going to like that, but she can’t open her eyes to check.

“I want you to start rubbing your clit through your underwear for me. Slowly. Gently. Don’t stop talking.”

Lena bites her lower lip, squeezes her eyes even more tightly shut, and starts lightly moving her finger against herself. She’d beg for permission to do more if she thought it would accomplish anything.

“I uh,” she goes on, deeply flustered. “I was… thinking about you… giving me orders. Making me take my clothes off.”

Angela’s fingertips trace her jugular.

“Keep going,” Angela says.

“I was… I imagined you bent me over the exam table. Made me spread my legs.” Even now, Lena pictures it vividly, the fantasy-Angela running probing palms up the insides of her thighs even as the real Angela has her in her sexy clutches.

“Good girl. Hand under your panties. Keep going.”

Lena shudders ever so slightly with this newest command. Angela’s never had her perform quite like this before. She obeys, and when next she speaks it’s breathier, more distracted.

God, she’s so wet.

“I um. You ran your hands all over me, just about… every inch. And then you… had me get up on the table, and then… there were straps on the table.” She swallows. “You tied me down, strapped me to the table, naked and exposed.”

“Good girl,” Angela purrs, hand sliding down, and -

Lena lets out a gasp as Angela massages her unattended breast, finds her nipple through layers of shirt and bra, and gives it a gentle squeeze.

“ _Such_ a good girl for me,” she reiterates. “Rub just a little harder and faster, now. Go on.”

“I uh,” Lena continues, actually panting now, both her nipples now receiving attention and proper, wonderful, terrible friction finally being applied to her clit, “I was. I was strapped to the table, so all I could do was lie there and look up as you… put on latex gloves, and you… told me it was going to hurt, but it was for my own good…” Her face is so red and she knows it. She feels like she’s radiating enough heat to cook an egg on her forehead.

“You like the thought of that, don’t you?” Angela asks. She sounds amused. Intrigued. Her touch leaves Lena’s breast, slides down to her waist and then burrows below her shirt to join Lena’s hand in direct skin-on-skin contact, reclaiming the abandoned nipple with just enough force to make Lena arch her back and suck in a sudden gulp of air. “You like the idea of me putting you through something unpleasant because I think it will be good for you.”

“Yes ma’am,” Lena murmurs, fighting the rising tide of pleasure. She’s getting closer. How long does Angela expect her to endure this without being allowed to come?

“Harder now, dear,” Angela says firmly. Lena’s only reply is a whimper and a buck of her hips - but she doesn’t dare disobey, and rubs herself harder, masturbating in earnest now.

“I’m getting close,” she gasps, not wanting to topple over that edge without permission. She knows by now that Angela likes to be in control of when she comes.

“Not yet,” she says. “Keep going. Tell me what happens next.”

“I,” Lena says, the syllable a frantic squeak as she tries to keep herself together, “I uh.”

“Stop,” Angela orders, and with a miserable whine she does as she’s told, both hands freezing.

So close.

She’s _so close_ how could Angela _make her stop_.

One second passes. Two. Three. Four. Her breathing goes from heavy to slightly calmer.

“Resume slowly, and tell me what happens next. If you come before I give permission, the consequences will be dire. Am I understood?”

“Yes ma’am,” Lena mumbles, legs trembling as she slowly draws the length of her finger up and down, so slick with need she’s half convinced it’s soaked through to the furniture.

“Continue.”

“I uh. I’m strapped to the table.” It’s unbearable. It’s so much. She’s so close to coming, but her hand is going so slowly, and she’s _not allowed_. “You put on your, your gloves. And you… you start with one finger, and I’m so wet, and you go to two, and th - three, and it’s - you do it just a little too fast, so that it hurts each time you add more. And there’s uh… a gag and… nipple clamps and… and then I - and then I came, ma’am, so I - I didn’t come up with more after that - I’m so close.” The tremble of her legs has graduated to a full-body shake, and now the begging comes, spilling from her lips, blurting: “I’m so close, please, please may I come? _Please_.”

“Hand out of your pants,” Angela says, with urgency, and Lena obeys even though it’s the worst possible thing she could have responded with.

But then Angela’s hand slips in to replace it, and all is right with the world, and relief washes over Lena knowing she’ll be allowed to come any second now.

“Thank you,” she blubbers, “thank you mistress.”

“Good girl,” Angela says soothingly, taking over with a firm, practiced motion that has Lena up and at the precipice of orgasm almost instantly. “You really are wet for me, aren’t you?”

“ _Please_ ,” is all Lena can say, shaking, trying _so hard_ to be good.

“Come for me,” Angela says, and guides her swiftly and firmly over and into the abyss of pleasure.

  
  
  


**Part Three**

The notion, having transferred thusly from Lena’s mind

to Angela’s, takes some time to find a comfortable place in Angela’s thoughts. She wouldn’t be the person she is, after all, if she were capable of easily discarding the tenets of professionalism, if she didn’t have some serious reservations about even _simulated_ abuse of power.

It takes a few weeks and a few conversations. And the conversations are fun.

There’s one in particular, when Lena is washing dishes, talking about some specific imagery from her fantasies that excite her, explaining the appeal and reassuring Angela that her interest is genuine.

It’s a fun conversation because after a few sentences explaining the things that make her motor purr, her motor, unsurprisingly, starts to purr just from thinking about it.

And Angela, self-sacrificing and wonderful human being that she is, helps out a little by whispering some things, some experimental things, against the back of Lena’s neck.

Things like _yes, of course, that would be necessary._

Things like _naturally, you would want to trust your physician to know what’s best._

Testing this new blend of _doctor_ and _master_ , she finds she likes it, but also that she’s afraid to like it _too_ much, because what if just playing at it is crossing some terrible line?

But Lena responds willingly and eagerly, and it was technically her idea. Her fantasy, not Angela’s. Does that make it more acceptable?

With Lena pressed up against the sink, Angela’s hand down her pants and her face vividly red as she tries not to drop the plate she was scrubbing, gasping without guile, aroused without shame, Angela thinks

  1. feeling the pulse of Lena’s hips as she gyrates hungrily into her touch is one of life’s greatest pleasures, and
  2. What happens between two consenting adults in the privacy of their bedroom has little to no bearing on their ability to perform their jobs responsibly.



So. Acceptable, is the conclusion Angela comes to, her middle finger enveloped in _warm slick swollen needy responsive_ and her mouth whispering the words _such a good girl, come for me now_.

It’s a rigorous mental process.

So, it’s perhaps a month after Lena first confesses to the fantasy that Angela works up the courage to bring it up in earnest and propose the scene in a tangible way.

Lena’s on board.

(Understatement. Lena is trying very hard not to seem as excited as she actually is, because she’s thoughtful and doesn’t want to put too much pressure on Angela to go through with it if Angela’s at all uncertain. It’s adorable that she feels this way, and adorable that she’s so utterly transparent.)

They lay it out in detail, although Angela leaves a few nuances unspoken, doesn’t spell out the exact order that things will happen in. She confirms the things she knows from experience Lena enjoys -

_“I assume you’d like it to hurt for real, but with either pleasure mixed in or the promise of pleasure later if you endure it?” “Yes, exactly.”_

\- and she double-checks the things that are new or uncertain -

_“You specifically like the phrase ‘this is for your own good’, don’t you?” A full-body shudder is Lena’s response, followed by, “Yes please.”_

\- and with these sorts of questions asked, her research complete, her data compiled, Angela begins to plan.

**Part Four**

The text message

comes towards the end of the day. Lena is forced to spend the rest of the afternoon’s briefings and policy discussions unreasonably horny, playing the message over and over in her head.

_Be home promptly tonight. You have an appointment for an examination._

She sits through the longest meetings of her life with what feels like a furnace between her legs. The remaining two and a half hours seem to stretch to two and a half days.

Her heart is thudding recklessly as she fumbles with her keycard at the front door, the click of the lock coming open resounding with an echo of answer from her libido.

“I’m home, love,” she announces, coming in the door, and her voice is full of nervous, eager terror that easily overwhelms the attempt at ‘chipper’.

“In through here please, Ms. Oxton,” comes her lover’s voice from down the hall, smooth and totally calm. Goosebumps appear suddenly and violently across Lena’s body, and a rare spike of urgent intensity sings loudly through her core.

There’s a certain kind of feeling, Lena has found, that she only ever experiences when faced with something that reaches deep inside her mind, plunges into the darkest depths of her inexplicable but undeniable fetishes, and expertly plucks the precise string drawn taut between her psyche and her groin.

The vibration of _feeling_ , some rich response that jerks her body to alertness and yanks a stammering exhale from between her lips, is not logical or rational or sensible.

She does not question what she likes, or why.

But there is no denying, after a lightning strike of _feeling_ in response to just those seven syllables, that she very, very, very much likes this.

Lena wordlessly slides her jacket off her shoulders with trembling hands and drops it on the floor of the front entrance, steps out of her shoes, and then walks down the hallway as if to her own execution.

Yes, the fear is vivid, and real, and decadent.

She turns the corner into the living room, and -

God.

She loves Angela, in this moment of terrified and blissful discovery. She’s loved her for a while, but this love strikes now a hundredfold, with her guard stripped away by her already vulnerable state of mind.

The sofa has been moved to the side, the cozy rug and coffee table nowhere to be seen.

In their place, a metal cart bearing an assortment of implements, a single stainless steel stool beside it. A standing lamp, one with an adjustable, directional neck, has been moved to the middle of the room to complete the ensemble.

And Angela, sitting in her armchair, regarding a tablet, fully dressed in her white doctor’s coat, flicking her eyes up impassively at Lena in a way that sends ice down her spine and heat up her legs.

“Over here, please,” Angela says firmly, standing, gesturing to the stool.

Lena swallows. Hard.

And walks over to where she’s been told to go.

Angela meets her there, catches her in her arms and kisses her, suddenly soft instead of hard. “Still want to do this?” she asks, breaking character, checking in. Yes, Lena thinks, she is definitely in love with Angela. That’s something she’ll have to process and deal with later.

“Oh god yes,” Lena murmurs emphatically, grabbing Angela’s collar and returning the gesture with a hard, thankful, adoring, appreciative kiss before they have to settle back into their roles.

Angela smiles into the kiss, but once Lena pulls away and releases her coat her expression settles back to cool neutrality.

Lena, of course, is less adept at faking indifference and is still beaming for the first few heartbeats until -

“I’m going to need you to remove your clothing for me, Ms. Oxton.”

\- and then another gasp of arousal rushes up her insides.

Her stomach plummets, her heart thumps, and her hands quiver as she reaches for the straps of the chronal accelerator’s harness. She wonders if perhaps Angela will lend a helping hand, but all she does is pick the tablet back up and start skimming through something, occasionally looking up and fixing Lena with a blank but scrutinizing expression.

Lena undresses herself, and finds it’s… different.

They’ve done the “get naked while I watch” thing before, but in the past when it was a purely dominant/submissive kind of thing, Angela was watching with open hunger, and Lena was stripping herself as quickly as possible to accommodate the need to _obey_.

The languid, unimpressed look in Angela’s eyes is thrilling in a different way. She’s still undressing quickly, but it’s more methodical than frantic, and she feels more a good deal more vulnerable, somehow.

She fights mightily with the urge to cover herself up, finds herself looking for a dressing gown.

But of course there isn’t one.

The pleasure of her unsettled discomfort coils like a serpent up and down her inner thighs and around her abdomen, its devilish tongue flickering just so against the growing heat of her groin.

Naked, she finds that she can’t help but hug her clothes to herself, hiding parts of her body that Angela has seen a thousand times.

“You can set those over there,” the doctor says, waving Lena towards the pushed aside sofa. Lena does as she’s told with shy, mechanical movements, and tries not to think about the moisture already beginning to trail down her legs. She swallows hard as she forces herself to put the pile of technology and fabric down, relinquishing her only shield.

“Come sit right on this stool, please,” says Angela, refusing to give Lena any time to recover from these repeated wonderful blows to her mental state, reaching into a box on the metal cart and drawing a fresh pair of gloves from within. The serpent twists tighter, faster. Lena crosses her arms over her chest and makes her way back over to the setup, incapable of looking directly at Angela. Her face is red and she knows it. “Sit,” Angela says, a little more firmly, when Lena hesitates.

Her bare skin touches down on cold metal as her willpower buckles and her body obeys.

She sits.

The audible snap of Angela pulling on her gloves is just one more touch of stimulus to her rapidly mounting arousal. And fear - don’t forget the wonderful twang of fear.

Angela regards her dispassionately, as one might eyeball a half-finished puzzle, and reaches out without warning or permission to pull Lena’s arms away from her chest and set them at her sides. It’s hardly being manhandled, this businesslike repositioning of her limbs, but her immersion into this game is such that it screams _violation of social contract_ in exactly the kind of way she was hoping for. If it happened for real, in an actual experience with an actual medical exam, it would be undeniably unprofessional and unpleasant.

In this staged, consensual, semi-scripted scenario, it serves to make her extremely fucking wet.

Angela walks around her, out of sight, behind Lena.

Lena fidgets the tips of her fingers against the edge of her seat and tries to calm her breathing.

The unknown and unexpected shock of ice against her back resolves quickly to _stethoscope_ as Angela says “deep breath in for me,” with the delightfully unnecessary touch of one gloved hand against Lena’s waist. Lena breathes in. “And out.” Lena breathes out.

Angela comes closer, slips an arm and the stethoscope over Lena’s shoulder and settles it firmly against her front. Their bodies are touching and it’s all Lena can do not to tremble as she obeys the next “Breathe in / breathe out,” sequence of commands. “Good,” Angela says, both imperious and soothing, as Lena does what she’s told. “Elevated heart rate,” she remarks, from above and behind. She sounds amused. “Relax. This is the easy part.”

_Fuck._

“Sit up straight for me,” Angela says, as she places the stethoscope on the cart. Shoulders back, Lena stares intently at her own naked knees. When her lover’s hands glide down her torso, their warm but impersonal latex touch cradling her breasts from behind, she can’t help but whimper. “Shh,” Angela responds, “this won’t take long.”

Lena bites her lip and feels the pulse in her groin get a little louder.

Trapped between Angela’s body and Angela’s hands, Lena can do nothing but sit there as Angela fondles her chest, being _thorough_ beyond the point of practicality. Lena gasps more than once at the fluctuation between neutral, exploratory touches and outright sensual ones, and more than once Angela has to remind her to sit up straight, shoulders back.

By the time the good doctor is satisfied, Lena’s about ready to be thrown against a wall and fucked with ruthless abandon, she’s so turned on.

Of course, that doesn’t happen. No, Angela is too devious of a top to have such a short scene planned. Lena knows the general style of her choreography by now, and there’s no doubt there is much, much more to come.

Angela draws away, pulls her gloves off, and discards them in a little waste basket in the bottom of the cart. She reaches for a fresh pair from the box and pulls them on as she walks back around into Lena’s immediate line of sight.

“Stand up, please,” she says. Lena does, rising from her seat onto shaky legs. “Now,” Angela continues, “I need you to turn around and face the far wall, bend over, and place your hands on the stool.”

 _Snap._ The new pair of gloves are on.

Lena bites back another hungry keen and turns, leaning down to grip the edge of the stool. She comes face to face with the top of the shiny brushed chrome seat, now home to a small smeared puddle that she knows she’s responsible for.

Angela trails the smooth, rounded edge of a thumb along the outside of Lena’s thigh, and a shudder roars through Lena’s body.

Then there’s a _click_ and suddenly that exposed, vulnerable feeling is so much more vivid because Angela’s turned the lamp on, directing it to point right at Lena’s lower half.

“Spread your legs for me please, Ms. Oxton,” she says, and Lena takes a few intense heartbeats to make herself obey. Ass in the air, bent over, hands grabbing the top of the stool, she shifts her ankles apart as far as she dares. “Wider, please,” Angela says, and Lena whimpers, squeezing her eyes shut. She spreads her legs farther apart, trembling slightly.

Angela places a full hand on her inner thigh, almost as if steadying her. Then comes the second hand, which wastes no time in sliding directly along her slick labia, a sudden spike of direct, explicitly sexual contact that makes Lena jerk suddenly, grabbing the chair harder.

“No shortage of self-lubrication,” Angela comments idly, the hand on Lena’s thigh repositioning on her lower back, gently but firmly holding her in position as her gloved fingers probe between her legs. “That will make it easier on you for the second part of the exam.” Lena lets out a soft, shaky whine.

Unrelenting, Angela starts rubbing steady, precise circles around Lena’s swollen clit. Lena pants, trying to resist the rising tide, but fuck, _fuck_ , this is _so much_.

“This is just a preliminary prep and exam. Try to relax,” Angela says, and Lena swears she can hear a smug edge in those otherwise unemotional words. Lena can only respond with a whimper that catches in her throat and stumbles from her lips without any sort of coherence.

Angela keeps holding her there, hand on her lower back, and moves from stimulating her clit to stroking at her entrance.

“Just relax,” she reiterates. “This is for your own good.”

And then she slides her finger in all at once, and Lena bites back a loud gasp. She realizes her face is pressed against the top of the stool, uncaring of the fact that her own bodily fluids are getting all over her cheek and chin.

Lena clings to the top of that stool for dear life.

“There’s a good girl,” Angela murmurs, slowly starting to move her finger inside of Lena, looking for -

“ _Oh,_ ” Lena yelps, as Angela hits the perfect angle. With great skill, the doctor starts moving her hand in a combination of slow thrusting and finger-curling motions that seem to knock Lena up another bar of arousal with each new pulse.

Sensation echoes with furious volume up and down her legs, along her body, so good it feels like she’s going blind. This intensity of sensation is inextricably wrapped up in all those other wonderful, penetrating feelings she has about the scenario - the fear and the emulated violation and the irrational, inexplicable things that turn her on with no good reason.

“We’re just going to establish a baseline before we move on to the full exam,” Angela says, as she works Lena inescapably towards the first orgasm of the night. “Try not to fight it.”

Eyes clenched shut and mind reduced to flickers of almost-thought blended in with luxurious uselessness, Lena grasps for the intended meaning of that sentence.

“Let it happen,” Angela says, and at last Lena comprehends she’s been given permission to come. A noise that defies description falls from her lips. She loses herself to the pleasure of Angela’s clinically accurate and ruthlessly consistent fingers.

Shockwave by shockwave, Lena rides the crests of ecstasy with the wild abandon of an inexperienced athlete, reveling in the rush of raw freedom but hardly in control. Higher and higher, until she can’t believe her body is capable of handling anymore, and then with a crashing crescendo she comes so hard she has no idea if she’s totally silent or shouting for the world to hear.

She is vaguely aware of Angela murmuring something that seems to have no words but conveys a warming sense of safety.

“Up,” Angela then says, a message much clearer, and Lena releases her death grip on the stool and shakily rises. “There’s a girl.”

Angela pulls her gloves off and chucks them into the little trash bin in the cart. Then she rummages through some other things in the bottom half of the cart, and straightens holding a small paper cup and a bottle of water.

“Sit,” she says, and Lena obeys, grateful for the reprieve for her legs. Lena slowly reassembles herself from the post-orgasm haze as she watches Angela open the bottle and fill the cup. What evil purpose could a paper cup full of water have?

None, it turns out, as Angela hands it to her and commands her to drink. Lena swallows it down greedily and holds the empty cup out, hoping for more. She didn’t even know she was thirsty until the water was going down her throat.

“One more,” Angela says, and fills the cup a second time. Her tone is still in Doctor Mode, and even in the lingering bliss of having just come wonderfully hard, Lena feels herself responding, already excited for whatever Angela has planned next.

“Alright,” she says, once the cup has been emptied again, plucking it from Lena’s fingers and tossing it in the trash with the discarded pairs of gloves. She crosses the room to the pile of Lena’s clothes and the chronal accelerator and scoops them all up, and then she returns to the cart where she tucks it all in on the lower level. “This way into the examination room, Ms. Oxton.” With brisk efficiency, Angela shuts off the lamp, takes hold of the cart, and begins wheeling it down the hall and in the direction of the bedroom.

Lena goes from _I think I’m starting to get ramped up again_ to _holy shit I’m so horny_ instantly.

She follows Angela to the room, holding her breath, feeling the hunger stirring with renewed vigor. At the door, Angela stops and gestures for her to go in first.

Lena hesitates and then crosses the threshold, heart in her throat.

Angela has stripped the bed of its sheets, normally an inviting dark blue with a blue and cream duvet, and replaced them with a single stark white surface and a lone white pillow. At each corner of the bed, starkly contrasted, is a black leather cuff, attached by a long strap to the nearest foot. The cuffs sit open and waiting for the limbs of the expected patient.

Lena swallows hard and once again feels the overwhelming urge to cover her nakedness somehow.

Behind her, Angela pushes the cart inside the room, forcing Lena to move forward. Angela shuts the door behind her and goosebumps spring to life across Lena’s body at the sound of it.

_Trapped._

Fuck, she loves this.

“I’m going to get you to lie down on your back for me please, Ms. Oxton,” Angela says. With her libido thudding loudly in her ears, Lena climbs up onto the bed. As she reclines against the stark white surface, she becomes very aware of just how hard she’s breathing. With the different sheets, this doesn’t even feel like their bed anymore. It even smells different.

“Arms up.”

Lena raises her arms obediently. She closes her eyes and revels in the thrill of her lover’s hands taking her wrists one after the other and buckling them into the waiting leather restraints.

“Just a safety measure,” Angela says, as she cinches the second wrist cuff shut. “Some parts of this procedure are likely to be unpleasant. You could hurt yourself if you react by moving suddenly.” It sounds almost cold, the way she says it. A wicked, semi-plausible justification for rendering Lena unable to resist.

Angela switches on more lamps, shining them ruthlessly on Lena’s exposed form, and then she returns to the cart and pulls a fresh pair of gloves from the box. Lena looks up at her with a shuddering breath as Angela stares down, makes direct eye contact, and slips the gloves on.

Lena squirms just a little under that scrutiny, whimpering and throwing her head back into the pillow.

“Come now,” her tormentor says, “there’s no need to be dramatic.” She runs a gloved hand down Lena’s rib cage, exploratory and unsentimental. “This is all entirely routine.”

Of course, that’s a bold lie. Angela is flexing her power in the situation, daring Lena to contradict her.

Lena stays silent, flashing one brief glance at Angela before looking down in a distinctly submissive gesture.

“Let’s begin, then,” the doctor says, as if they haven’t already been at this since Lena got home. A fresh shudder runs through Lena’s body, and she knows she’s probably already leaving a damp spot on these crisp new sheets.

Angela rummages through the contents of the cart. The first thing she extracts is the pile of clothes and Lena’s accelerator, which she thoughtfully places on the bedside table where Lena can see it. Then it’s back to the card, and this time she emerges with a tube of something. Angela pops the lid open and squeezes a glob of something into the palm of her hand, making eye contact again and smiling just a little.

“This might hurt a little,” she says. Well. If that isn’t ominous.

Seating herself on the end of the bed, Angela presses her palms against the calf of Lena’s nearest leg. The gel is cool against her skin and Lena jerks a little against her wrist restraints, which makes Angela chuckle a little. “Just try to relax,” she admonishes, rubbing Lena’s leg down with what Lena is going to guess is some sort of massage cream.

Angela draws her hands slowly back to Lena’s ankle, and then drives down with her thumbs, digging into her shins and pushing up towards Lena’s knee. It feels kind of nice, on the first pass, actually, and then -

Lena throws back her head and swears as Angela finds the tension and ruthlessly applies more pressure with the heel of her hand.

“It’s unpleasant now,” Angela remarks dryly, not stopping, “but it’s clearly much-needed.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” is all Lena has to say in response to that, as a dragon of agony blossoms angrily in her calf muscles.

“I see I’m on the right track. We’ll have to spend some time working through this area in particular.”

Lena whimpers, tugging at her restraints in halfhearted protest. For all her whining, the combined impact of Angela’s tone and Angela’s merciless ministrations is hitting a high note for “some of the most erotic things Lena’s ever experienced” so far.

Holy _fuck_ but it hurts, though.

Angela works through the left leg with cruel attentiveness, then moves on to the right. Lena swears her way through the fluctuating blows of dull and piercing pain with the occasional genuinely nice sensation mixed in, varying in volume and strength of curse to best reflect how mean her lover is being to her in that particular moment.

Angela pulls away at last after what feels like at least fifteen minutes per leg, and Lena heaves a sigh of relief, deflating into the mattress. Lena watches avidly as Angela peels off the gloves, throws them away, and then comes to the head of the bed.

 _What now??_ Screams her mind. _Please more. Please no more. Please **more**._

Angela unbuckles the wrist restraints and then stands back.

“Onto your stomach please, Ms. Oxton,” she says. Said stomach does a twisty little dance of delight and terror. Lena is shaking as she rises up onto her hands and knees, turns over, and settles herself down, face-first. Angela re-secures the wrist restraints, and this time Lena can’t see what she’s doing when she returns once more to the cart.

The jingle of a buckle gives just enough away to send another spike of arousal through her body, and then Angela’s hand is snaked around her throat, cupping her jaw, tilting her head up.

“I’m sure you understand, it’s best if you’re silent throughout the procedure so I can concentrate on what I’m doing,” Angela says, working fingers into Lena’s mouth and pulling it open as the gag she’s got in her other hand comes into view. Lena wheezes a helpless noise of shock as Angela works the bit between her teeth. “That’s better,” Angela says, securing the buckle at the back of Lena’s head and then stepping away to admire her handiwork.

Lena can only offer a muffled moan. If she weren’t feeling like a uselessly obedient pile of submissive driftwood, she’d grind her hips against the bed in both protest and approval. As it is, all she can do is wonder where Angela’s hands will end up next.

To her great dismay, Angela goes back to the legs and applies another cold dollop to her calves.

“You really ought to be seeing a physiotherapist on a regular basis, considering all the wear and tear your job places on your body,” she says reproachfully, as her thumbs dig in and find an especially bad knot in the meat of Lena’s calf muscle. Lena yells against the gag, clenching fists and teeth in unison, and presses her forehead against the sheets.

“You’re not going anywhere until I’m satisfied I’ve addressed the worst of this,” Angela responds. It feels like she’s trying to soften solid marble into clay, Lena thinks fleetingly, before another especially painful dig until her muscle has her grunting into the gag.

This is hardly the first time Lena’s endured the particular kind of torture sometimes called PT, but it’s definitely the first time Angela’s done it to her, and definitely the first time it’s happened in a situation where she was naked, bound, and gagged. After time immeasurable of Angela’s firm voice narrating the progress of her work and the unpredictable transition back and forth between tolerable and painful, Lena realizes to her surprise that she’s drifting deeply into that floaty place that pain and submission sometimes takes her. It still hurts, of course, but the hurt morphs into an experience of sensation, something she perceives in an almost out-of-body way. She relaxes into it and takes it all in, immersing herself in it.

After a few more minutes, Angela stops.

Perhaps having detected the change in Lena’s breathing or reactions, she abandons Lena’s legs and comes once more to the head of her bed, quickly unbuckling and removing the gag.

“How’re you doing?” she asks, drawing the rubber bit from Lena’s lips, wiping away a string of saliva from Lena’s chin with the corner of her white coat.

“Mmm,” Lena murmurs, blinking slowly, flexing her fingers. “Good, Mistress.”

“Wrong game,” Angela says fondly, leaning in and brushing her hair aside to kiss her forehead.

“Not done, are we?” Lena asks, her ability to form sentences staggering back together.

“I have more planned, but if you want to stop we’ll stop, sweetheart.” Angela strokes her hair as she says it, and Lena smiles and cranes her head so that she can place a kiss on that hand.

“Can we keep going?” Lena asks.

“If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay,” Angela says, with one last parting kiss to Lena’s forehead before she slips back into her theatrical persona. Check-in accomplished, the check-up resumes. She unclips the wrist restraints. “Onto your back again, please.” Lena flips over, still sluggish and floaty from the painful treatment of her tight muscles, and obediently lifts her wrists to be re-attached to the corners of the bed.

“Not this time,” Angela says, laughingly, and moves to the foot of the bed without connecting Lena’s wrist cuffs to anything. She disconnects the full ankle cuff and strap from the bottom of the bed, devices thus far unused in the evening’s play. Lena closes her eyes and simply enjoys the feeling of the leather coming tight around her left ankle, the sound of the buckle as Angela secures and clasps it.

Lena’s eyes snap back open again as Angela places a hand under her leg, against the inside of her knee, and presses against her thigh to make her bend her limb. As she lifts Lena’s thigh she pushes her ankle up the bed and towards her upper body. The urgent vulnerability whispers through her body again as Angela reaches for the left wrist cuff and pulls her arm down to clip wrist to ankle.

Her heart starts to hammer again.

Angela repeats this procedure with the other side of Lena’s body, bending her knee and binding wrist to ankle. This leaves Lena lying on her back, knees parted and pointing to the sky, legs wide.

Angela dons another fresh pair of gloves.

“If you can control yourself, we won’t need to use the gag again,” she says, an idle remark more than a promise or threat. Like she doesn’t care either way.

As Lena’s eyes fall on the newest device Angela produces from her cart - a delicate chain culminating in a nipple clamp at each end - she takes in a deep, shuddering breath, legitimately uncertain if she _can_ control herself.

With gloved fingers, Angela takes one of Lena’s nipples in her gentle grasp and rubs it softly between forefinger and thumb. Lena bites her lower lip and utters a desperate sound. Angela touches and teases just enough to get the blood flowing, to get it good and stiff and sensitive. Then, her eyes on Lena’s face, she pinches. First with light, barely-there pressure. Then harder, then harder. Lena squirms, bucking her hips ever so slightly, but manages not to make a sound.

Swift and methodical, Angela releases her fingers and then replaces them with the first clamp. Lena clenches her teeth, breathes hard through her nose.

Fuck she is so _wet_ holy _fuck_ she just wants Angela to _take her_ already.

Angela repeats the process with the other breast, watching Lena’s face all the while, taking in her reaction. Lena looks back at her once, flushes bright red at the eye contact, and shuts her eyes immediately, unable to stand it.

“There,” Angela says, giving the chain a light tug, pulling a ghost of a gasp from Lena’s lips. “That’s not so bad, is it?”

Lena can only lie there, eyes shut, breathing hard, feeling her nipples throb and her groin begging to be touched.

She hears the sound of more rummaging on that cart. Damn that fucking cart, who knew a little steel _trolley_ would be the most ominous thing in her lover’s toolkit?

Daring a peek, she opens her eyes just in time to see Lena straighten holding a metal tray bearing a neatly arranged collection of toys, organized by size. The sight alone makes her huff a little groan. This is going to hurt and she _can’t fucking wait._

“We’re going to start small,” Angela says, squirting a generous dollop of lube into the palm of her hand while Lena avoids looking her in the eye, “and work up to see what the limits of your body are.” She picks up the smallest one, cute and purple and innocuous, and lubes it up.

Lena squeezes her eyes shut again. Her brain is doing about as much complex thinking as a pile of mashed potatoes, at this point, but her body is singing a litany of _please please please please please_.

She’s already so wet and the toy is so small that there’s barely a heartbeat between feeling it press at her entrance and then it slipping all the way in. She throws her head back into the pillow, balling her fists. _Yes, yes, oh god yes._

Angela slides the first toy in and out without much more resistance than a single finger, doing little in the way of technique, and Lena is still already shaking. The entire scenario has contributed so much to her arousal, she could come easily if Angela decided she wanted to up the speed a little or to add something external to the mix.

So of course she doesn’t, just leisurely glides the toy back and forth, just enough to make Lena desperate for more.

She’s on the verge of begging when Angela finally pulls it all the way out, puts it aside, and takes the next one from her collection.

Bigger. Ridgey. Lime green. Lena likes this one. This one is right in her comfort zone of dependably fun to masturbate with, not much warmup needed.

Angela lubricates this one with efficiency, places it against Lena, and then presses in. This one earns a low moan of approval at the sensation. Without any difficulty, it’s all the way in and then Angela is working it with regular, steady thrusts.

Lena heaves a shaking breath through her nose as the friction reaches the point of perfection. Again, her mind is blank, but her body seems to roar. _Oh, this, this is it, please don’t stop this, this is **it**_.

Her legs tremble, her mouth falls open in a silent gasp, face contorting as the pleasure and the pressure builds and builds and builds and -

\- and then there’s nothing, then it pulls out and she’s left empty, dazed, and -

And then the next one drives in, bigger, thicker. Its blunt head pushes, angry, demanding, slick. A stab of pain, beautiful pain, as she stretches to accommodate the newest player.

Full, so full now, and it hurts, it hurts in earnest. The shake of her body is half ecstasy, half agony, and it’s almost actually unpleasant -

And then Angela presses something cold and smooth to Lena’s clit, and with the jarring surprise of a sun suddenly coming into existence where before there had been nothing, it goes from _off_ to _on_.

With the vibrator held hard against her, the scale tips again from pleasure to pain to pleasure again. She jerks, and jostles the chain between her nipples, and at the renewed reminder of the clamps rushing through her body she rises up, up, up -

And all the while the toy goes inexorably deeper, bullying its way where it doesn’t fit, shouldn’t fit, _will_ fit -

And the shaking consumes Lena’s whole body -

And the friction and the stretch and the fullness and -

And then Angela starts to pulse the toy in a way that resounds deep in Lena’s core and she is lost, lost forever to a blaring white noise shockwave of an orgasm. Forget up and over. This is liftoff. This is freefall. This is orbit. This is transcendance.

She comes, she comes hard, and then just as she’s starting to finish, to come down -

“F-f-fu-huck,” she whines, as Angela resumes the ruthless pace with the toy, working tight circles with the vibrator.

“Again,” Angela commands, and Lena’s eyes water, her body separates from this plane of existence in a manner entirely unlike her blinks through time, and then she’s lost, a twig in whitewater rapids, helpless to resist the rushing tide of the next peak.

For a while, there’s nothing, no sight, no sound, nothing but _touch_ , such incredible _quantity_ and _quality_ of touch. Lena surrenders entirely to the experience, gives her body over utterly, and trusts in Angela.

Angela makes her come once, twice, three times back to back, and then finally shuts the vibrator off, carefully draws the toy out of Lena’s now aching core, and unclips her cuffs from each other. Lena collapses, exhausted, onto the now sticky sheets.

Lena’s eyes are closed and her mind very much not at home, so all she perceives is a pause where there is No Angela, and then the Very Good And Nice Presence of Angela snuggling up to her. She seems to now be naked. This is good. Lena likes this.

“How do you feel?” Angela asks, her voice full of care and tenderness.

Lena peels her eyes open and drapes a sweaty arm across Angela’s torso, wiggling closer to kiss her collarbone.

“Good,” she mumbles, smiling stupidly.

“Good,” Angela whispers, stroking Lena’s undoubtedly gross and clammy hair.

It feels nice.

“Will you pet me?” Lena asks, nestling a little closer, clingy in the afterglow.

“Of course,” Angela says. Her fingers run soothingly against Lena’s scalp, over and over without end.

Lena just lies there, enjoying it for a while, breathing, drifting in and out of consciousness.

After a while, she stirs a little and places another kiss on Angela’s chin.

“Did you have fun?” Lena asks, still a bit in a daze.

“I did,” Angela confirms, smiling broadly. “In fact,” she whispers, “once you’ve had a chance to recover…” she trails off, her smile becoming a grin.

Lena grins back at her, and even with how drained she is, she’s much too fascinated by her lover’s body and proud of her ability to turn Angela on to resist the urge to lazily explore her hip and then her inner thigh and then -

Angela’s eyes flutter closed and suddenly it’s her turn to be making noises.

Lena grins sleepily at her, brings slick fingers to her own lips, and sucks them impishly in front of Angela.

They smile at each other. Lena can feel Angela’s heart picking up its pace with the arm she has draped over her chest.

“Have a little nap,” Angela says, “and then we’ll figure out what to do about that.”

Lena laughs, presses her face back against Angela’s breastbone.

“Okay,” she says.

Before she can even get the words _will you keep petting me_ out of her mouth, Angela’s hand is in her hair. She relaxes to a state of near liquid, and promptly falls asleep.


End file.
